O Captain! Mercaptan!

Author photo.

Author photo.

Nothing is a memory jogger like Worcestershire sauce on a hard-boiled egg and, oh, what a whiff it was: remembrances of childhood and Easter Sundays and the time I farted while gagging after I’d shoved too many eggs into my mouth. Farting, in my family, meant that your moment of flatulence would become a family artifact.

Years later, they would tell about how I once farted wearing my Halloween clown mask and costume and, hence, was dubbed Stinky the Clown, The Clown Who Burned a Hole In His Clownsuit.

Or the tales of being teased because the pants I wore as a five year old had the Disney-owned Winnie-the-Pooh printed on inside waist meant that I had “Pooh in your pants.” Memory swings to memory like a monkey swinging through the trees, as my brothers would chase me around the house singing “Pooh in your pants! Pooh in your pants!”

It’s probably why I don’t like scatalogical humor.

Or fart jokes.

Or war.

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One thought on “O Captain! Mercaptan!

  1. I would love to see this piece turned into a poem. It has many poetic qualities, including the hard honesty that goes with life (or at least living with our families–mine was a dysfunctionate bunch and I still can’t trust that I can swim for fear of being dunked. Or being tickled–lest I pee my pants. Etc. Etc.!!!!)

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